


chainsmoke + knock knock jokes

by buzzcutliam



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, M/M, Punk Rock, spray painting, ummmmm kind of exhibitionism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 19:04:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1828912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buzzcutliam/pseuds/buzzcutliam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn keeps quiet a lot and smokes cigarettes and goes to punk gigs and doesn't really know what he's looking for; Liam is definitely something he does not expect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	chainsmoke + knock knock jokes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tinyweirdloves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinyweirdloves/gifts).



> For Laura.

Zayn tips his head back, eyes blinking open at the starry night dotting the sky above him. It’s a deep dark blue and, he imagines, that there are bright white swirls of galaxies, slow burning red stars, streaks of yellow that slash across spinning planets mixing along it far off from his line of vision and he wishes he could see it, vivid, wide-eyed, instead of just inhaling the scent of infinity it glows with.

It’s late.

It’s late enough that the last car that passed was a gritty delivery truck headed to a town two hours away and the only place open is a blinking neon round the clock diner that serves breakfast 24/7.

But even though it’s late—later than it usually is when Zayn’s making his way back home—the inside of the club, grainy and cramped, is much darker than the open air night he stumbles into.

A soft golden glow rains on Louis’ shoulders when he twirls, childlike, feet knocking against the rough gravel. Zayn smiles at him, fondness softening his features, as he pulls a beaten-up pack of Marlboros from his pocket. The streetlights are spotlights tonight. Or at least thats what they look like.

Louis closes his eyes, singing the bridge to Teenage Dirtbag in an impressive falsetto that Zayn acknowledges with a raise of his eyebrows and a flick of his lighter to the cigarette he has dangling between pursed lips. He inhales, breathing in for a one, two, three, before exhaling through his nose.

Even though he has bruises scattered across his body—an especially impressive one on the left side of his chin that he’s sure is going to hurt like hell in the morning—he’d rather be bruised and battered from passion and love and anarchy than from the hate and ignorance that he met in the high school hallways.

He’s thrumming with energy like he hasn’t spent the last three hours jumping and moshing and head banging to punk rock and the feedback that filters in through the beat up speakers perched on the side of the stage. Zayn feels like he’s been injected with adrenaline, like he could run for miles or fall in love. He takes another drag, closing his eyes so he can feel the edges of the smoke scrape sharply against his throat. He extends his hand, offering it to Louis; a smile he can’t help spreads across his lips when Louis takes it.

Usually nights at The Vortex are kept to 12:00—in a curfew Zayn’s parents yell at him to keep but are rarely there to enforce—but tonight’s gig was not the regular garage band deal. Tonight was an extended set by The Mallrats—the only band to ever “make it” out of this scummy suburban town and Zayn’s personal heroes. And that was infinitely more for making it out of this place than it was for being semi famous in the punk scene. Not that Zayn didn’t appreciate their musical success—it was just that his dream was to leave more than it ever was to be playing gigs in gritty bars. He preferred being in the crowd, anyway.

“Good night?” Louis says, taking a drag of the cigarette before passing it back to Zayn.

“Good gig,” Zayn hums against the filter of the cigarette.

“They were pretty sick weren’t they?”

“But when you stage dived bro,” Zayn says, laughter playing behind his words. “I was sure you were gonna die.”

Louis lets out a squawk of laughter. “Almost forgot about that,” he says. “Fucking someone rammed me into the wall.” He rubs at his left shoulder where he can still feel the impact from almost flying into the cinderblock walls.

“Dying isn’t punk rock, Lou,” Zayn says, mocking.

Louis’ bouncing laughter echoes across the empty road, settling the silence between them under the glittering gravel and tufts of dying dandelions they skip, jump, hop over.

“Hunger isn’t punk rock.” Louis’ voice announces like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “And, Zayn, do you know what I am right now? In this very moment?” Louis prompts. His voice doesn’t as much disturb the night as much as it melds into it.

Louis doesn’t wait for Zayn to answer before he yells, “Hungry!” into the sky as if the stars care about the state of his stomach.

Zayn rolls his eyes, knowing too well where this is really going.

The diner is the only place lit up with blinking fluorescent lights and Zayn knows that Louis isn’t interested in the root beer floats or cheesy crisps.

He’s interested in a tall glass of Harry Styles.

They’ve been skirting around each other since sophomore year when Harry walked into Louis’ drama class with flowers tangled in his hair (from falling into a bush—not because he was a hippie with a fashion statement to make). He’s heard Louis go on about Harry’s curls and “his eyes are so green, Zayn, I think they’re made of emeralds and grass and shamrocks,” too many times to count. But he’s also seen the way the taller boy’s smile softens when Louis’ around, how he hangs on to every word out of his mouth like everything about Louis’ precious and has to be remembered (which is ridiculous because Zayn’s been Louis’ friend for four years now and he knows that he’s not and it really really doesn’t).

But when Louis’ into someone he never fesses up. And he’s never been as whipped as he is with Harry.

Not that he’d ever say that out loud. So Zayn does for him. Because he’s a good friend and all.

He clears his throat, smirking around the burned filter of his smoke.

“Nah, sounds like you’re thirsty.” He waggles his eyebrows, dropping the cigarette to step on it. “Thirsty for some Harry Styles.”

Louis flicks him on the shoulder. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you?”

Zayn shrugs, smirking.

“Yeah, a bit, actually.”

+

They saunter into the diner like they own the place because, at half past one, it kind of feels like they do.

A bell on the doorway announces their arrival and they squint, slightly at the bright fluorescence raining down on them.

It’s modeled after one of those 50s American diners: glaringly bright vinyl floors, an old jukebox in the back, an array of baked goods (that aren’t as fresh as they were that morning) lining a chrome counter upfront. The soft crooning of Diana Ross’ voice comes out of the speakers and settles something in Zayn’s veins.

As much as he loves the punk scene, he’s not a stereotype. Punk, rap, pop, rock—all good. So he hums along to the sugary vocals as Louis shoves him toward the counter. Louis pulls his phone out, trying to be nonchalant about checking his reflection in the front camera and Zayn hides a snicker behind a cough when he almost trips on the step leading up the stretch of chrome.

They don’t wait for anyone to take them to a booth (no point when they’re the only ones there), choosing, instead, to drop on to the stools along the counter. They hear some shuffling in the back before a rumpled body emerges from the doors to the kitchen, walking backwards.

“You sure you’re gonna be okay, Haz?” A voice Zayn doesn’t recognize calls out. A rough edge to it, laced with sleep or a lack thereof.

The person runs a hand through his hair and Zayn takes a moment to appreciate the way his back muscles press against his t-shirt.

See, the thing about living your whole life in a town as small as this one is that you spend all your time surrounded by the same people. Your mum’s best friend checks you out in the library, your next door neighbor owns the grocery store. So to have someone new, someone else, here. Well, Zayn’s interested in that.

But he can also see the press of muscles along where the t-shirt the boy’s wearing meets his biceps, and he can see four blocky arrows inked on his forearm and he just can’t help when he swallows, unconsciously, images of rough grips and hand prints flitting through his head. Maybe he’s interested in a little bit more than just a new face.

He doesn’t really remember any moving vans in town but the thought doesn’t really register.

Zayn shakes his head when a muffled voice—Harry’s, he’s guessing—comes from the back. Zayn turns his attention to Louis and tries not to laugh at Louis’ exaggerated sigh of disappointment when it’s not Harry who walks up to them with a tentative smile and weariness circling his eyes.

It’s a boy their age. He’s got brown hair matted against his forehead and eyes that Zayn can only describe as warm. Zayn’s gaze travels straight to his lips once he starts to chew on them, hesitant, and Zayn might swallow obviously but also he might not care at all because the only thing on his mind is the obscene cherry color of his mouth.

But Zayn drags his attention away to return his smile, reaching absentmindedly for the cigarettes he keeps in his pockets.

The boy smiles back brighter, grateful for some kind of response, before clearing his throat and launching into an obviously scripted greeting.

“Hi, welcome to the Sunset Diner. My name’s Liam and I’ll be serving you today.” He frowns, gaze flicking to the windowed wall. “Er, tonight. Can I get you—”

He doesn’t get a chance to finish because Louis holds up a hand to stop him from talking further. “Where’s Harry? He’s supposed to be working tonight.”

This time, Zayn doesn’t hold back a laugh when he sees Louis lean over the counter and narrow his eyes at the poor kid standing with a pen ready in his hand.

Liam looks unsure how to respond to this, eyes going to Zayn for help but Zayn just shrugs. His brows furrow in amusement almost. “He’s in the back. He spilled a bag of flour and it’s everywhere right now.”

And for the first time he notices the white powder dusting along the black apron he has tied around his waist.

Louis heaves a dramatic sigh, crossing his arms petulantly.

Zayn clears his throat, feeling around for his box of smokes, “I’ll have a coffee. Louis’ gonna get an ice cream float.” He orders for the both of them so Liam has something to do instead of feeling personally responsible for Louis’ disappointment.

Liam sends him a grateful look before ducking his head to scrawl it on the notepad he has in his left hand.

Zayn fumbles with the pack of smokes and takes out a cigarette, putting it between his teeth, as he watches Liam write down their order. He’s got the tip of his tongue poking out of his mouth and Zayn thinks that it’s unfair for anybody to look so attractive doing something so mundane.

Zayn feels around for a lighter and flicks it on when Liam looks up, “Anything else or—” Liam’s voice cuts off as he watches Zayn light the cigarette and take a drag. Something smug flares in Zayn’s chest when he thinks that he’s just made Liam lose his train of thought. “You, uh.” Liam loses track of his words before clearing his throat and starting again. “You, uh, can’t smoke in here.”

Zayn raises his eyebrows, challengingly, as he takes a drag. “No?” He says, voice low. He licks his lips and watches Liam’s eyes flick to the dart of his tongue. He blows the smoke out in a way he knows for a fact is dripping with debauchery.

“Nobody’s allowed to smoke in here.” Liam says again, as if he’s unaware he’s repeating himself, eyes still glued to Zayn’s lips.

Zayn smirks around the filter, feeling a little reckless from the adrenaline still running through his veins and a little brave from the way Liam’s staring at him.

“Then why are you smoking hot, Liam?” He leans forward, eyes raking along Liam’s body, enunciates ‘smoking hot’, draws Liams name out like he’s tasting it, voice gravelly from both the smoke and the implications behind the words.

Liam stammers, fish mouths, and a blush crawls up his neck and on his cheeks. “You’re gonna have to put it out or leave,” he says when he can finally form words, huffs of frustration playing through his knitted eyebrows.

Zayn matches his glare with one of his own. “Harry let’s me smoke in here.”

“I’m not Harry.”

And Zayn doesn’t know who this kid thinks he is. He can’t walk into a diner that Zayn’s been going to for years and tell Zayn what to do. Doesn’t matter if he’s straight up gorgeous or if he has lips like sin, Zayn’s got history here and this boy just has a stupid embroidered uniform.

So he does the only thing that comes to mind.

He leans back, pursing his lips. “No, clearly, you’re a dick.” Zayn fires back, getting up out of his seat.

“Just following orders,” Liam replies, eyes trained on Zayn as he watches him leave. “Better than being a pseudo punk asshole.”

Zayn walks out, his middle finger following his body out the door.

+

The next time he sees Liam he’s smoking again.

He’s got a cigarette between his lips, a cloud of smoke washing over his vision as he pulls open the zipper lining his backpack. He grabs his lighter again, flicking on the flame as he pushes around the spray paints he’s got stuffed in there to pull out the colors he needs.

It’s late and the only light is a street light washing over the wall in front of him and Zayn shivers absentmindedly because its warm for September but it’s still cold.

He pulls the sleeves of his worn grey hoodie over his hands and sets the paint cans softly on the ground.

One drag, two drags.

He shifts his weight, teeth wearing down on his bottom lip and he looks at the stretch of wall in front of him. Some of the bricks are crumbling, some a dark red like they’d been replaced recently, some colored in with spraypaints from other nights like this one where Zayn chose to spend the hours shivering in front of a lonely road over kicking restlessly at the too warm sheets spanning his bed.

He hums to himself, hoarse, when he decides what he wants to paint and how he wants to do it.

It’s not like vandal was something he’d thought he’d put on his resume. It’s not like vandal is something he even really considers himself now. But it’s Saturday night and Zayn couldn’t get rid of this feeling underneath his skin so after laying in bed for three hours, he decided to grab his backpack and pull on a worn sweatshirt so that he could sneak out (walk out, really, thanking his 11 year old self for his petulance and stubbornness when he demanded that he wanted to move to the basement) and, well, take a walk.

A walk.

That’s what he calls it.

Because no one really knows who spray paints this stretch of wall separating the forest and the road but no one ever really questions it either. And Zayn doesn’t like thinking that he’s some kind of small town artist superhero but he does acknowledge the stares that his graffiti gets in the daytime with a quirk of his lips and it feels nice, if he’s being honest.

It feels nice that people can look at something he created and not judge it because he created it.

The wall’s decorated already with silhouettes of people and skylines and planets. He paints what’s consuming at that moment (his identity or thoughts of flight or the impossible smallness he feels sometimes) and tonight what’s consuming him is a restlessness thrumming right underneath his chest, lodged between the spaces in his ribs; locked, loaded.

But he wants something, wants to be something; remembers a movie he was watching over the summer about some kid who put on a spandex suit and started fighting bad guys.

So he drops the burned out cigarette on the ground and reaches for the black spray paint and takes a breath.

In, in, out.

And slashes across the fading red and orange and brown of the brick, trusting his hands to follow the image so sharply vivid in his mind.

Because he never thought that any part of this town belonged to him but this wall was his. The smudges and fuck ups and shading and lines were his, they were him, essentially.

He’s mesmerized by the hiss of the paint, tips of his fingers growing numb from the cold that’s settled over the night. He’s got the corner of his bottom lip between his teeth and he misses the footsteps slowing to a stop behind him when he’s caught up in the mix of the navy blue and yellow paint specks.

But he doesn’t miss the cough behind him when he settles half a step back to look at how he’s done so far.

“This is wicked.”

Zayn’s embarrassed to admit that he jumps at the gravelly voice, chest thumping. In the four years he’s been doing this, this is the first time anyone’s ever caught him.

And he doesn’t have to turn to know who that ‘anyone’ is. He can’t get the melted chocolate edge of that voice out of his mind.

Liam.

So he takes a breath to steady himself before asking, “Yeah?”

He turns to see Liam’s eyes pressed, crinkling as he steps forward to look at the whole collage of designs.

Zayn feels suddenly self conscious and tries to look at the art like he’s seeing it for the first time. There are crude transitions of “Fuck You” and a cryptic “Don’t think I won’t” scrawled across the spaces between the sketches of trees and birds and one pin up girl. Each picture represents a time in his life, an emotion that he translated to art instead of fists and fights. It’s so intensely personal that Zayn can’t look at the pieces he’s been so proud of for so long and turns to look at Liam, instead.

Liam who’s got his mouth open so slightly and his eyes soft with wonder and a look of amazement on his face so bright that Zayn thinks is even more painful to look at, so he stares at the cigarette he dropped on the cemented sidewalk instead.

He doesn’t know how many minutes pass before Liam breathes out a “Yeah,” that has Zayn’s cheeks burning up.

But he scowls. This boy who insulted him a little more than 24 hours ago can’t make him feel like a shy schoolgirl. So he turns his frown towards Liam and then to the spray paint he had set down on the ground.

He picks it up again, shaking it. “You gonna tell me off for spray painting now?” He sounds less bitter than he feels, sounds lazy, joking but he hopes it hits Liam all the same.

He’s not expecting Liam’s laugh but that’s what he hears nonetheless. Caught off guard by the light chuckle that Zayn thinks he could listen to forever.

He hears Liam shuffle closer, is acutely aware of the way Liam’s body heat is radiating and, in the back of his mind, he thinks that’s ridiculous because he’s still a couple feet away but it doesn’t make the desire to lean in closer to the other boy any less consuming.

Zayn swallows.

“No, uh, I,” Zayn sneaks a look over to see Liam rubbing the back of his neck. “I wanted to say sorry for calling you an asshole. It wasn’t very nice.”

And it’s so elementary school that Zayn can’t help the laugh that tumbles out of his mouth.

He grins at Liam. “Alright.”

“Alright.”

He starts spray painting again, trying not to be conscious of how he can feel Liam’s eyes on him. When he finishes the outline, he clears his throat.

“Sorry for, um, being an asshole.”

It comes out clumsy because Zayn’s not used to apologies, has refused to apologize for so long that it doesn’t come easily to him. But he think this new kid with his kind eyes and warm, warm smile maybe deserve a little slack.

And, even with his eyes still trained on the half finished picture in front of him, he can hear Liam’s smile when he mumbles a soft, “Alright.”

Zayn smiles but still doesn’t turn to him. He leans down to pick up the yellow spray paint.

“You’re like Banksy,” Liam says, eyes going over the designs again.

Zayn flushes, suddenly glad for the lack of light around them.

He grins, soft, and turns to Liam. “Don’t flatter me, Liam.”

Their eyes meet and all of Zayn is so focused on catching the glints of hazel in his chocolate eyes that his chest feels heavy from the breaths he doesn’t, can’t think to take.

“I like the way you say my name.”

And Zayn, for the life of him, doesn’t know what that’s supposed to mean. But Liam doesn’t let Zayn embarrass himself with stuttering out a thanks before he tears his eyes away from Zayn’s and drags them across the bat silhouette Zayn’s got outlined.

“I like Batman,” he says in the same tone like it’s so easy to talk about what you like and why you like it.

And Zayn doesn’t realize that he’s extending the hand with the yellow paint in it to Liam until after the words, “Wanna give it a go?” come out of his mouth.

Liam’s eyes flick to the can and he eyes it wearily. His lips pull into a pout and Zayn thinks that it is the most endearing that anyone has ever looked. “Don’t wanna mess it up.” He confesses, a self-deprecating grin on his lips.

“Nonsense, Liam,” he says, thrusting the can towards him for emphasis. Liam’s grin is infectious.

Liam takes the can and regards it for a long while before looking at Zayn and shrugging. “I don’t know what to do, mate.”

Zayn rolls his eyes because he can’t help but not roll his eyes.

He moves slowly, taking Liam’s right hand in his. He tries not to pay attention to way he can hear his heart beat thumping in his ear or how he is hyperaware of all the points of contact in between them. He steadfastly avoids Liam’s eyes, sure he might spontaneously combust or do something equally embarrassing like fall to his knees if he catches them.

And, the thing is, that Liam’s warm. Like all of him. And its getting so goddamned cold outside but Liam’s knuckles and his palm and the bony ridges of his fingers—they’re warm.

Zayn inhales a shaky breath and places Liam’s index finger on the tip of the nozzle.

“You press it.”

Zayn doesn’t have to be looking at Liam to know that he’s rolling his eyes. “I know that,” he mumbles. “’M not that daft. But, like, I don’t wanna mess it up.”

Mess it up, mess it up, mess it up.

They’re so close, turned into each other. And, even with Zayn’s hands by his sides, he can still feel Liam’s warmth and he forces himself to take a step back cause he doesn’t want to mess it up.

It; this; whatever the energy between them is.

Another breeze washes over them and he thinks he can smell the faint scent of cinnamon and coffee over Liam.

He puts his hand over Liam’s, finger over his on the nozzle and presses himself against the other boy’s back and—oh.

His mind’s clouded over with the way his chest is pressing against Liam’s back and how he has his left hand splayed over the muscles under his shoulder and how intimate this feels but he bites his lip and brings their hands to the middle of the outline, pressing down on the nozzle till a spray of paint comes out.

He waits a moment, waits two. Waits until holding his breath gets too uncomfortable to continue and lets go of Liam’s hand so he can fill it in himself.

Zayn takes a step back, eyes not even on the yellow spray of paint but on the way the streetlight is raining on Liam’s features, making him look ethereal under the inky sky, on the broken down sidewalk.

Liam slows to a stop when he finishes filling in one wing. He takes a step back and Zayn doesn’t care that the paint is a little uneven in places, he wants to paint this, this image. Wants to commit it to canvas, wants to remember the calm, Olympian beauty on Liam’s features.

Wants to kick himself for being so fucking sappy.

Liam turns to him, a shy grin aimed at the can of spray paint in his hand. “Thanks,” he says, voice sounding dangerously close to wrecked. “Never been a vandal before.”

Zayn laughs.

The moment passes over him, his heart no longer in his throat, no longer choked with want or need or raw deep rooted desire.

“No? ‘S pretty late to be taking a walk though. Kinda sketchy,” he teases. “Not sure you’re not a vandal. Or Batman.”

The familiar blinding smile spreads slowly over Liam’s lips. He shrugs, hands stuffed in jacket pockets.

“Nah, just a kid with a job.”

“Late hours.”

“Pays better.” Liam kicks at the ground. “‘S only on the weekends, anyway.”

Zayn hums, watching Liam’s feet kick half heartedly at the scattered pebbles.

“I never got your name,” Liam says, finally looking up at Zayn.

“Zayn,” is all he can manage to say.

Liam smiles slow and hands Zayn the can of spray paint he still has clutched in his hand.

“See you around, Zayn,” is the last thing he says with a wave as he takes a few steps back before spinning and disappearing into the inky darkness the streetlights don’t reach.

Zayn has to shake himself into breaking the trance that Liam’s put him in.

+

It’s only later that night, after he’s slowly closed the door to the basement and curled into his bed with his blankets bunched around his calves that he realizes that it’s the first time he’s ever shared that wall with someone.

He sleeps in fits.

+

After that night, it seems like he sees Liam everywhere. Like he’s always on the edge of his periphery; like they’re rotating around the other’s axis. They cross paths like intersecting shadows dancing around each other until they’re supposed to line up.

Zayn’s not exactly sure where they’re supposed to line up.

There are times when he thinks that that night between them was a fever dream he had.

He had woken up the morning after it at an obscenely early hour, tossing and turning on his mattress, a thin sheen of sweat slick on his skin. He pulled on the first shirt his hands caught and a pair of sweatpants that had paint splotches along the legs. Checking for his pack of cigarettes, he walked straight to the wall, willfully ignoring the sharp cool slap of fresh morning air against his bare arms.

The first real, deep, honest breath he took was when he saw the splotchy yellow fill on one side of the bat symbol.

That day, when his sisters asked him what he was smiling about, he stuck his tongue out at them, biting back a wider grin.

+

School starts a week later on a Wednesday and Zayn sits in homeroom with his head bowed and hands crossed over his chest, trying to catch a few more winks of sleep before he has to face daunting subjects like Calculus and Physics and the hell on earth that is Physical Education.

He vaguely registers someone sliding into the seat in front of him and grumbles, annoyed, when they tap against his desk.

“Wha—” Zayn starts, voice going dead when he sees Liam sitting in front of him.

“Hey.” Liam’s got a shy smile on his face.

“Hey.” Zayn matches his smile with a grin of his own.

“Last first day,” Liam comments; and Zayn can tell he’s shy, that he’s trying so hard to put off the awkwardness that’s threatening to intrude.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

Zayn can’t help himself from grinning wider, doesn’t care to when he can see Liam relax in his seat, can count the creases against his eyes when his smile gets so bright they disappear into crescents.

+

They talk until the bell rings for first period.

+

He has Gym Class with Liam.

And Liam makes the endless laps around the gymnasium bearable with the way his biceps strain against his top and the way his sweat soaked tee outlines his abs; but he also makes the endless laps around the gymnasium completely and unfairly unbearable with the way his biceps strain against his top and the way his sweat soaked tee outlines his abs.

+

A week into classes is the first time any of them see Liam in the cafeteria. He’s precariously balancing a tray of pasta and a snapple in his left hand as he searches for change with his right.

Zayn always thought he’d found friends to sit with but, he realizes, watching the boy wearily gaze around the speckled blue tabletops and scuffed green tiles, that he hasn’t. He nudges Harry with his foot and pointedly looks over to where Liam’s thanking the lunch lady. He watches him bow his head and turn toward the exit and he can’t help but feel mad that Liam doesn’t have someone to sit with.

He watches Liam make his way to the exit, wondering where he’s going, when Harry calls his name out and Zayn’s eternally grateful that the curly boy is the dictionary definition of friendly because Liam’s face lights up and he carefully makes his way over to their table.

“Close your mouth, Zaynie, you’re drooling,” Louis quips under his breath and Zayn slaps his hand away from where he’s stealing a handful of fries from his tray.

“Fuck off, Tomlinson or I’ll forward Haz the fucking sonnet you wrote about his fingernails.”

Louis levels him with a glare.

“They’re nice fingernails.”

Zayn rolls his eyes as Liam gets closer, sliding into the seat opposite him.

“You’re cool with me sitting here?” There’s a blush crawling up the side of his cheeks.

“Yeah, ‘course, Li.” It’s Zayn who starts and while Harry and Louis know that he’s “made up” with Liam, they don’t know why and they don’t know how, and there’s still a low scandalizing “Ooooh” that Louis whistles out. So Zayn jabs him in the ribs like any decent person would.

He’s too focused on the way Liam’s eyes crinkle at the sides, turning into crescents, to even care about the indignant squawk that comes out of Louis’ mouth.

“Thanks, I don’t really fancy spending another lunch in the stairwell.” Liam scrunches his nose, spearing a piece of penne with his fork and bringing it to his mouth.

Zayn has to tear his eyes away from the way Liam’s lips work.

+

In the weeks that follow, Zayn is impressed at how easily Liam fits in with the rest of the group. Cause a lot of people try to sit with them and they aren’t exclusive or anything but people just usually aren’t able to keep up with Louis’ quick quips or Harry’s long drawn tales or Zayn’s stony (“unnerving” he’s been told) silence. They’re too quick to please, too insecure to find their own place in the midst of everyone else but Liam isn’t the case.

Zayn thinks he doesn’t mind seeing Liam around; can barely remember a time when he thought he’d mind seeing Liam around.

+

He also sees Liam at the diner.

But instead of every Friday as a post-Vortex ritual, it’s now embarrassingly, nearly every other day.

He starts making excuses with Louis about how he’s “really craving a root beer float” or about how he “hasn’t had a real basket of crisps in so long”. Louis smiles at him knowingly but keeps his mouth shut.

+

The first time Zayn hears Liam sing is on a Friday night.

He has sharp blue bruises blooming on the inside of his forearm that hurt when he puts any sort of pressure on them. So he’s got his right arm bent at an awkward angle when he and Louis walk into the diner and Liam’s mouth drops at the scene.

“You need ice.”

Zayn goes to wave the offer off but his arm is so sore that all he can do is wince instead.

Liam tsks and goes into the back while Louis’ got his body draped over the counter, a hand tangled in Harry’s hair while Harry talks about a man who came in before with a bag full of feathers.

Zayn sits down in a booth this time, sliding all the way in so his side is pressed against the glass.

He watches the wind ruffle leaves off the trees, the pain in his arm numbing till he barely registers, much less remembers it.

“How’d you get this one, then?” Liam mumbles, voice low against the grainy Smiths track playing in the background and the loud laughter from Louis and Harry.

Zayn hums, “Don’t remember, really.”

Liam takes the ziploc he has filled with ice and wraps in a napkin, nodding. He presses it gingerly against the bruise and Zayn hisses at the freezing contact.

Liam hushes him with a small, “shh” and rubs his hand against the back of his arm soothingly.

And Zayn’s locked, trying not to shiver—more from the way Liam’s fingers feel against his skin than the too-cold ice.

He doesn’t register it when Liam starts to hum lowly, too mesmerized by the feeling of being pressed up between the window and a charming, charming boy. But when syllables start slipping through Liam’s lips, a snippet of “I am human and I need to be loved”, Zayn falls into it.

And he doesn’t know if Liam forgets Zayn’s there or if he doesn’t care but he gets into it, catching every word, voice rising and falling with the song in the background.

Zayn doesn’t move; he melts into Liam’s touch and his voice and for that snapshot moment, let’s himself have it.

+

It; this; whatever the energy between them is.

+

It starts slow, after that: the things Zayn lets himself have.

When Liam curls into his side, his head tucked in the crook of Zayn’s neck, Zayn doesn’t shy away. He brings a hand up to run through Liam’s soft hair, smiling to himself when he feels a contented sigh pressed against his neck.

When Liam’s humming under his breath to the old time vocals of some small town band, Zayn hums with him until he looks up and smiles, singing the words to whatever’s playing softly but surely.

When Liam comes to school in a tank top that fits broad shoulders obscenely, Zayn traces the dips in his biceps with his eyes; imagines what it would be like if he could trace the dips in his biceps with his fingers, with his tongue, with his teeth.

And Zayn knows, in the back of his mind, that he’s gone, gone, gone for Liam and he knows, in the back of his mind, that it’s a very, very, very bad thing.

He tries to stop the stupidly fond smiles that take over his face when he sees a Snapchat of Liam pulling a dumb face; tries to stop from groaning out loud in the middle of the library when he sees a positively unfair picture of Liam, shirtless and sweaty, on Instagram; tries to stop himself from pretending that his hand is Liam’s when he’s got a tight grip on his aching dick in the middle of a restless night.

+

He stops on the first day of October.

Stops in his tracks when he slides into the diner, hands clutching two tickets to the Rocky Horror Picture Show that’s playing in the town over.

Stops in his tracks when he sees Danielle with a hand trailing down Liam’s shirt front and a candy apple smile painted on her lips as she tips her head back, laughing.

+

He gives the tickets to Louis and Harry; spends that Saturday night miserably replaying “Please Do Not Go”.

+

The next day in class, Zayn’s scowling at the still life set up in front of him like its personally offended him and his family. He hasn’t heard anything their teacher’s said and, frankly, he doesn’t care.

The only words running through his head: straight, straight, stupid, straight.

When he feels Harry nudging him on his side to start working, he angrily slashes at the paper in front of him, sketching the sides of the vase and the curves of the pear like he’s in pain.

Because he is.

But art is something that distracts him and he finds himself so focused on the shading of the apple and the shadows that are stretching along the tablecloth that he lets himself go of the misery weighing him down long enough to draw.

When he’s done he lightly traces the parts of the paper that are close to breaking, where he had pressed down hard on and huffs out a laugh. He goes to hand it in.

“Zayn,” Mrs. Stone, his art teacher with wild grey hair, calls him over.

“This is incredible.” She lightly sets the piece down on her desk. “All your work is pretty incredible.”

Zayn flushes, “Thanks.”

“I know that you’re just a student but the city center got a lot of funding for art this year and they’re hosting an art show in December.” She digs through her desk to find a crumpled paper that she presses into Zayn’s hand. “Portfolios are due at the end of November. Consider it at least, yeah?”

The bell rings then and Zayn’s being pulled out the door by a bouncing Harry Styles and a flyer in his hand.

+

He goes to spend lunch in the library, still not ready to face Liam. But Liam runs into him as he’s walking in.

The collision sends Liam’s books on the floor and Zayn curses lowly as he goes to pick them up.

“Shit, sorry about that, Li,” he curses internally when he uses Liam’s nickname.

But Liam doesn’t make a move to grab the books, he stares at Zayn like he’s been wounded. “Hi, stranger,” he finally says, subtly admonishing Zayn.

“Liam.”

“Haven’t seen you in days.”

“I know.” Zayn shifts his weight on his feet, uncomfortable with the confrontation.

“Are you mad at me?”

It’s only been three days since Zayn stopped talking to Liam but it hits Zayn right there how big a part of Zayn’s life Liam’s become. The constant snapchats, the play by plays of tv shows over text, the sleepy conversations at night and Zayn doesn’t know how he thought Liam would’ve just moved on if Zayn let himself fade away.

And he knows that it isn’t fair for him to cut off all communication with Liam just because he can’t control his fucking feelings for the boy.

“No,” Zayn says honestly. “I’ve just been down is all.”

And that makes Liam’s brows furrow further, upset.

“You need to talk about anything?” He brings a hand to rest on Zayn’s arm and Zayn wants to swoon like the 12 year old girl he is.

He swallows. “No, not now. I’m fine.”

Liam chuckles. “I know you’re fine, Zayn. I just want you to know if you need anything, I’m here, yeah?”

And Zayn doesn’t have any time to wonder what his first comment meant. “Yeah,” he stutters out, arms growing heavy with the books he has clutched in them. “Let’s go to lunch.”

+

Lunch, as it turns out, is a bad idea.

When Liam and Zayn make their way over to the table, Louis regales them, hands cupped around his mouth, “Paint me like one of your French girls, Zaynie.”

Harry giggles, falling into his side.

“What’s he on about?” Liam lets go of where he’s been pressing soothing circles along the small of Zayn’s back to slide into his seat. Zayn sits down next to him, facing Louis.

“Mrs. Stone wants to feature Zayn in an art show,” Harry answers for Louis like a proud mother.

Zayn’s cheeks burn up because he didn’t even know that Harry was listening, didn’t want anyone to know about the show until he decided if he wanted to do it (and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to do it).

“N-no,” he stutters out. “It’s an art show but I have to send a portfolio in. They might not even pick me.”

“Stop being so fucking humble, man,” Louis says around a bite of cold pizza, leaning over the sticky cafeteria tables to flick Zayn playfully on his quiff.

“You’re so in,” Harry agrees.

And Zayn’s trying to accept their well intentioned compliments but he’s also trying not to get his hopes up.

Disappointment is what he’s scared of. Disappointment like how he’d disappointed his parents when they found out from a neighbor that Zayn had his tongue down the throat of some college boy when he was 16; disappointment like how his teachers would greet his presence with a roll of their eyes; disappointment like the words “useless art fag” being snickered at him.

So he curls his hands into fists to stop the shaking he feels from the inside.

But before he can tell them to quit it, Harry bears into Zayn with his earnest eyes.

“Look I know you’re gonna pull the ‘oh my art’s not good enough’ card but bag it this time, alright?” Harry leans over like he does when he’s being overly genuine. “You’re good. You’re fucking incredible, Zayn so just try this for once, yeah? Don’t sell yourself short.”

He digs his nails into his palms.

“Harry—” He tries to start.

“Zayn, try for once, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Zayn resigns, dropping his eyes to where his fingers are digging into the faux wood covering of the table.

Harry and Louis cheer lowly and Zayn tries to block their enthusiasm out. Liam nudges his thigh with a thumb like a silent “I’m here” and starts a conversation with Harry about the English paper they have due next week.

Zayn’s eternally grateful.

+

Zayn manages to push away the insistent nab of jealousy inside of him when the word “Danielle” comes up in conversation. He’s good at tuning out the rest of the words, poker face. Granted he hasn’t heard it mentioned often but he has heard it mentioned and that, he thinks, is distressing in itself.

So he really doesn’t know what’s going on with Liam and Danielle but he also knows that he doesn’t want to know and that, until he can look at Liam without feeling like his heart is lodged in his throat, he’s going to block out any thought of the two.

He’s working on toning down the gay.

Still, it doesn’t help the state of the butterflies in his gut any when Liam nudges his forehead against Zayn’s shoulder during a particularly hard shift at the diner or when he has a cup of coffee clutched in his hand some Monday mornings or when his sleep wrecked voice mumbles a goodnight over the phone.

And it definitely doesn’t help when, on Halloween, he comes out of Harry’s car with his hair shaved into a fauxhawk.

Zayn almost bails there, slackjawed, turning to burrow himself in Louis’ obnoxious leopard print seat covers, but Louis grabs him by the collar and drags him forward, whistling lowly.

“Who are you tryna impress, Payno?”

“Not you Tomlinson.” Liam jeers, tongue out. But he tugs at the hem of his shirt, the blush on his cheek betraying the confidence in his words.

Louis lets out a wounded noise, puts a hand to his chest dramatically. “And I thought we had something special.” He says, mock scandalized.

Liam smiles good-naturedly and pulls Louis in to muss his hair until Louis starts tickling him and he falls backs into Zayn.

“Zayn,” his voice stretches out his name and Liam looks at him bleary eyed with a smile Zayn’s helpless not to match.

“Li.” Zayn tries to match Liam’s enthusiasm but he’s a little bit dazed at the grip Liam’s got around his waist and he’s so glad when Harry starts whining about it being 7:30 already and “the movie’s not gonna wait for us.”

Liam and Zayn fall into step behind Harry and Louis who are doing a piss poor job of the ‘just friends’ gig they’re so insistent about pulling off. Louis’ got his left hand sliding dangerously low on Harry’s back and they’re pressed up together like they haven’t seen each other in months.

Zayn wants to retch but he also wishes he knew what that kind of familiarity felt like.

He settles for looking at Liam and pointedly looking at the boys in front of him and making a fake vomit gesture with his finger in his mouth.

Liam laughs, rolling his eyes and Zayn mentally congratulates himself on the victory.

They stroll onto an open field with a large white sheet set up front with the start screen of the first Scream film playing on loop as everyone gets settled around it.

Zayn doesn’t know where Harry finds out about these things, doesn’t know how Harry coaxes Zayn to come to these things, but Zayn’s here so he sits down on the checkered tablecloth Harry spreads on the ground in front of them.

Liam stretches his legs next to him, scooting closer so he can drop his head on Zayn’s shoulders.

Zayn lightly rests his head on top, gently poking Liam in the ribs.

“Hey.” Liam moves his head so his lips are just brushing the shell of Zayn’s ear. “So, you know how Haz and Lou are all,” he nods his head towards the two, Harry sprawled in Louis’ lap with an embarrassingly goofy grin painted on his face.

Zayn nods, trying not to shiver at the hot pants of breath he feels press against his neck.

“Well, like, I think it’s about time they sorted out their feelings, don’t you?”

“What’re you suggesting?”

“Leave ‘em alone--you know how Louis gets when we watch scary things, you know? All jumpy and touchy and maybe Harry’ll distract him with a kiss.”

Zayn smiles because he remembers how Louis made a little nest of blankets and bodies when they marathoned The Walking Dead and how his false bravado isn’t going to last him ten minutes in.

Zayn scoots back, slowly getting up and extending a hand to Liam who takes with a grin.

“We’re such good friends,” he tuts, pulling Liam to his feet.

“Too good.”

He grins at Liam, tongue poking out behind his teeth, while he pulls him towards the line of trees. The orange tufts of leaves are dimly illuminated by the light of the movie and the atmosphere reminds Zayn of being drunk and careless and carefree.

He feels intoxicated on the faint smell of charred wood and smoky cinnamon, feels faintly like he’s floating when his boots crunch over fallen twigs and crunchy leaves, feels brave under the light wash of muted blues and blacks, the noise in the background dissipating into a radio static that feels more comforting than disconcerting; feels happy.

Liam untangles their fingers when he falls in step next to Zayn and Zayn tries not to frown at that. But he doesn’t have time to school any grimace that might grace his face because Liam brings a hand to his shoulder and motions him to sit down against the tree.

They drop down together, knees knocking against each other as Zayn leans his head back against the rough bark and looks at Liam with an eyebrow raised.

Liam raises an eyebrow in response, holding out two upside down fists in front of Zayn.

“Is this a magic trick?” Zayn asks lazily, flicking Liam’s fists with his index finger and his thumb.

Liam giggles--fucking giggles--and it’s still something Zayn’s not used to.

“Something like that.” He pushes his fists further into Zayn’s space, prodding him to pick one.

“Fine, fine,” Zayn mutters, lighting tracing the lines of Liam’s fingers on the right one till Liam opens it.

Nothing.

“You lose.” Liam giggles again.

“Wasn’t aware I was playing, man.”

Liam shrugs, opening his left hand to reveal a carefully rolled joint.

“You cool with this?” He asked, bottom lip pinched between shining teeth.

“Fuck, yeah,” Zayn says, grinning wide, reaching into his pocket for a lighter.

He hands it to Liam who puts the joint between his teeth before flicking it on carefully. Zayn wrinkles his nose at the sticky sweet smell and watches Liam take a drag.

“I didn’t know you were so,” Zayn stumbles, watching Liam exhale smoke like he’s the poster child for debauchery. “So very.” Zayn ends it there like that was his entire thought but it’s not. He’s overwhelmed, engulfed in thick smoke and hooded eyes.

So very complex; so very endearing; so very inexplicable, unpredictable, straight.

So very straight.

So Zayn tears his eyes away from the way Liam’s licking his lips and opts to reach over to take the joint from Liam’s fingers after he takes another drag.

He feels the first hit deep in his chest; after a couple more he feels like his joints are disconnecting, like the spaces between his bones are expanding more and more until he’s consuming all the space around him, the trees and the grass and the laughter and the stars.

He passes it back to Liam who’s got his eyes trained on Zayn, lips curved into a lazy smile.

“Why’d you tell me off for smoking, then?” Zayn asks, slow, eyebrows rising in challenge.

“‘M not against smoking, you donut. But you,” he presses a finger into Zayn’s shoulder, “were ruining the atmosphere of my fine establishment.” He finishes with a flourish, grinning at Zayn dopily.

Zayn scoffs. “What atmosphere? Stale coffee and sticky tables?”

Liam whacks him along the shoulder lightly. “Oi, you’re not complaining about the stale coffee when you drown yourself in it.”

“Don’t wanna hurt your feelings, do I?”

Liam sticks his tongue out childishly.

They pass the joint in silence until it burns out. Their vision becomes a little hazy and Zayn turns his head to the stars instead of the movie, noticing, along his periphery, that Liam follows.

Zayn frowns a little because he thinks about how wonderfully still this moment is; how comfortable and calm and warm it feels. How familiar gets underneath his bones and settles there and how much he really really likes it. He wonders, absently, if Danielle ever makes Liam feel like this and because he’s a little high and feeling the reckless “now or never” of the moment wash over him, he asks.

“How’s Danielle doing?” Zayn doesn’t mean to say her name like she’s a bad person but that’s how it comes out.

Liam makes a confused noise. “What? Fine, I think? Why?”

Zayn shrugs. “Thought I’d ask.”

“Are you--” Liam turns to face Zayn. “Are you, like, into her or something?”

Zayn actually laughs out loud at that, trying to stop himself from doubling over at the thought. “No.”

“Oh.” Liam turns back up to look at the stars, unfazed by Zayn’s fit of laughter. “You sounded like you were is all.”

And that makes Zayn frown again. It’s not like he was plotting to take Liam’s precious Danielle away from him. The worst part is that he can’t even hate her because she’s a pretty face, sure, but that’s not at all all she is. She helps out with the local animal shelter and raises money for the old folk’s home and he’s pretty sure that she’s been in some beauty pageants. She’s better than the burnout he is and he thinks--he knows--Liam deserves better, deserves her.

He’s bitter and, he thinks, he’s allowed to be bitter.

So he huffs, changing the subject.

“Why’d you move here?”

The question used to be, “who are you living with?” because there were no houses for sale, no moving vans, no blurbs in the city newsletter about a new family moving into town but Liam mentioned one day that he’s moved in with “Uncle Simon” and that that was the reason why he was stuck working the graveyard shift on weekends at the diner.

Liam hums the opening to a Kooks song like he didn’t hear the question but Zayn knows it’s how Liam processes. That he hums when he’s trying to fill the space in between thinking about what he wants to say and saying it.

“I, uh.” He exhales sharply like the words are hard to get out and Zayn, for a moment thinks that he’s crossed a line but Liam continues. “I came out to my parents over the summer.” He says it in one breath like he’s afraid he’ll back out if he doesn’t get it out fast. “And, um, my dad? He didn’t take it well. Wouldn’t talk to me for weeks and I thought, you know, that that was going to be the worst bit. The silence? But then one day he calls me down during breakfast, right? And he sits me down and he says, ‘Get out of my house.’” Liam stops, takes a breath, letting out a harsh peal of laughter. “Imagine that--nothing for weeks and then,” he swallows. “And my mom, she was fine with it. Told me she loved me and everything so when my da--when he--told me to get out she, uh, made arrangements for me to come here and live with her brother.” He doesn’t look at Zayn, keeps his eyes on the slow breeze brushing through the grass in front of them. “So I could finish school and everything.” He shrugs again, arms coming up around himself.

And Zayn’s caught in two places because the words “came out” are on repeat in his mind and he’s locked on the possibility of what that means but so is the choked edge to Liam’s voice and the way he’s biting his lips raw so that they won’t shiver or shake. He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to make it better so he presses his side closer to Liam’s.

“Shit,” is all he manages.

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Just don’t say ‘sorry’. ‘M fucking sick of hearing that.” He groans into Zayn’s neck.

“I’m not.”

“Not sorry?”

“Not really? Is that bad?” Zayn starts, then clarifies. “Wouldn’t have met you if you didn’t have to leave.”

Liam smiles, genuinely this time; not like he’s warding off tears and Zayn’s heart swells a little at the sight.

“So selfish, Malik,” he tuts.

Zayn laughs, feeling sobriety wash over him.

“So what’re you gonna do after school’s over then?” He pulls a few blades of grass from where he has his hands pressed on the ground. “Last year and that.”

Liam coughs. “Um, I wanna go into business? Maybe accounting?” And he sounds so unsure that Zayn can’t even believe for a moment that ‘want’ plays any role in this decision.

“But you don’t really.” And then. “Clearly.”

Liam laughs. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, do you love it?”

“No,” he says, honest.

“Then why are you gonna spend like your entire life doing it?”

“Not that simple, Zaynie.”

Zayn shrugs. “What do you love doing?”

Liam doesn’t answer for a bit and Zayn thinks that, maybe, Liam’s not gonna answer at all but he hears a stuttered “Music,” and smiles.

“Accounting’s not very musical.”

Liam laughs again before settling his weight against Zayn. “I, uh, tried, you know.” Zayn turns to him, an eyebrow raised in intrigue. “Like, I was on the X-Factor. When I was fourteen but I didn’t make it. Got sent home after the judges house.”

“But you’re so good now, didn’t you think to go back.”

He feels Liam shrug against him. “Not really. Got bullied a bit back home, being sent home was kinda fresh wounds for all the kids to pick at so I didn’t wanna risk it again. I dunno.”

Zayn turns to Liam now, letting a hand rub over Liam’s kneecap he has pulled against his chest. “Yeah? Well you’re fucking brilliant.”

Liam tries to stop the chuckle that escapes his lips but shakes his head instead. “What about you? Secret underground artist?”

Zayn purses his lips. Honestly, he’s never really thought much about university. He knows he’s going--has to go to appease his parents--but he doesn’t know what he’d do.

“Dunno. English maybe. Something like teaching. I think I’d like to teach.”

“Not art?”

“Don’t really need a degree in art, do you? Plus, I don’t wanna disappoint my parents more than I already have so,” he lets the sentence hang.

Liam nods, exhales slowly like he understands. And, Zayn thinks, if anyone would understand, it would be him.

“Why don’t you wanna do the art show?”

Zayn’s caught off guard; his fingers that were softly dragging across the denim stretched on Liam’s knee slow to a stop.

“I don’t wanna, I dunno, get my hopes up I guess.”

“But you’re good, yeah? The wall’s incredible and you did that.”

Zayn shrugs, the corners of his mouth pulling into a frown. “They only like that ‘cause they don’t know I made it.”

“What d’you mean?”

“Like people don’t like me, Liam,” Zayn says, exasperated. His frown deepens as he starts digging into the worn denim on his own jeans.

“I like you.”

He says it so easily that it reminds Zayn of the night they met at the wall.

He laughs, “Didn’t at first, though did you.”

“Can’t imagine why. Calling me a dick was super nice.”

“Dick.”

Liam’s laughter tears across the field and, in the background, Zayn registers the sound of screaming and ominous music but it’s blurred, fuzzy.

“Hey,” Liam says, suddenly serious. “Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try.” When Zayn scoffs, he taps on his knee, getting Zayn to look towards him. “Haters,” he starts, voice stoic and wise, “gonna hate.”

And it’s so absurd and so uncalled for that he giggles—fucking giggles—as he leans into Liam, shaking with laughter. He grabs on to Liam’s knee, still drawn up, to steady himself as their echoing voices fall into the sky. He can hear some people shush them angrily but he feels so distant from the picnic blankets and warm huddled bodies that he doesn’t care to respond.

He turns his grin to Liam who’s looking at him like he’s something unexplainable until he can’t look at him and has to turn his gaze downward. They settle into silence again, facing each other, points of contact (Zayn’s thumb pressing insistently on Liam’s knee, Liam’s fingers tracing down the rough fabric of Zayn’s jeans, their sides pressed together) between them searing until the tension between them builds into something unbearable.

He feels like he can’t breathe, like the air is heavy with ‘what ifs’ and ‘maybes’ and Zayn doesn’t want to mess it up.

“Hey,” Liam speaks again, voice wrecked, and prompts Zayn to look up.

The last thought that goes through his head before he leans in is, “Fuck it” and he pulls Liam in for a kiss.

There’s a soft “oh” escaping from one of their mouths but Zayn doesn’t know who’s, and, doesn’t really think it matters when he can taste the bitter aftertaste of smoke and mint when Liam’s lips move against his.

He pulls away so that their noses are a fraction of an inch from brushing and nudges his cheek, “This okay?”

Liam’s face splits into a grin and he whispers, “Finally,” before pulling Zayn in with a hand on his waist.

Zayn moves so that the bark isn’t digging into his back and settles, straddling Liam’s lap. They share lazy kisses, mind still swimming with hazy smoke, and Liam’s lips are slick when he snakes a hand into Zayn’s hair.

His other hand settles on Zayn’s waist as he gives a lazy tug at his hair, causing Zayn to moan softly into his mouth.

He can feel Liam grin around his lips and Zayn moans higher, his forehead pressing into Liam’s, mouths panting into each other when Liam pulls more roughly.

“You got a pain kink, Malik?” He giggles as Zayn’s nails dig into Liam’s shoulder.

He tugs once, twice, harder and Zayn can feel his heartbeat in his ears.

He kisses Liam again, mouth open this time, teeth knocking and his hands trail down Liam’s shirt until he finds the hem and slips his cold fingers up the expanse of muscle on Liam’s front.

His fingers dance lightly across Liam’s body and Liam’s letting out these small whimpers as Zayn reaches his nipple that has Zayn swallowing the gasps coming out of Liam’s mouth.

He bites down on Liam’s bottom lip, eliciting a breathy whine from the other boy and levels himself up so he can grind down on Liam’s hardening prick slowly.

“Fuck, Zayn,” Liam pants when Zayn moves from swiping kitten licks over Liam’s lips to kissing down his jaw before settling to suck over the splotchy birthmark on Liam’s throat.

Liam’s hands grip tightly along Zayn’s side and he tips his head back, biting his lips from groaning out loud.

He pulls at Zayn’s hair to get his attention. “We’re--” Zayn hums, licks against the mark he’s made. “Fuck--we’re in public, Zayn.”

Zayn looks up, eyes bright. “We can stop.” He grins, accentuating ‘stop’ with a filthy twist of his hips that has Liam bucking up into the touch.

“N-no.”

“Sure?” Zayn levels his head with Liam, making small circles with his hips so they drag against Liam’s erection painfully slowly.

“Yes, Zayn, c’mon.”

He pulls Zayn in again, licking into his mouth as he thrusts his hips up when Zayn rolls his hips down until he can’t focus on moving his lips or nipping against Zayn’s neck or anything but the white hot heat coiling in his gut.

“Gonna, fuck,” he groans, thrusting harder. “Gonna come.”

Zayn growls, fucking growls, grinding down in faster circles as he moves his lips underneath Liam’s ear and nips lightly. “Then come.”

Liam comes, biting down on Zayn’s shoulder to muffle his shout and let’s Zayn fuck himself against his thighs until he’s shuddering with aftershocks.

They pant against each other’s necks until they get their breaths back. In between lazy kisses, Liam wrinkles his nose.

“Haven’t come in my pants since I was 13.”

“Look at what you do to me,” Zayn laughs, fake swooning.

Liam grins fondly, licking at Zayn’s lips before kissing him slowly. Their lips move, pressing against each other, tongues messy until the mess in their pants becomes too uncomfortable.

“I drove over. Um, I can take you home. Don’t think Harry’d mind much.” Liam pulls back, breathing against Zayn’s lips.

“Is this your way of asking for round two?” Zayn raises his eyebrows

Liam squawks. “This is my way of helping you outta the mess in your pants. Unless you’d rather stay in sticky boxers.”

Zayn sticks his tongue out, getting up and reaching down a hand to help Liam. “You sure know how to treat a man, Payne.”

+

Nothing changes; but, in a way, everything changes.

‘Cause they, like, talk--but they’ve always talked--and Zayn still gets this fluttering in his chest--but that’s not a new development either.

What is, is the fact that there are times when Zayn’s hit with the fact that he’s allowed. To kiss and touch and hold this boy who’s completely blown him away with how kind and funny and interesting he is.

And that kind of terrifies him.

‘Cause the word ‘boyfriend’ has always felt so cumbersome to Zayn. Big and full of expectations and obligations; but, when he’s looking at Liam as he dances to some Elvis Presley tune with a broom he’s supposed to be sweeping with, it fits.

Zayn presses sugar sweet kisses on to the corner of Liam’s lips when he slides a cup of coffee (cream, no sugar) across the glittering silver linoleum at some dark hour of the night. He curls himself into Liam’s side when they’re marathoning marvel on his laptop. He traces Liam’s fingers with his own when they lie lazy, side by side, on an afternoon when doing nothing sounds better than doing something

And then there’s the getting off.

The quick handjobs pressed up against Liam’s bedroom door when his uncle’s away at work. The slow, tentative way Liam took Zayn into his mouth, relaxing his throat around Zayn’s heavy member as he tried not to gag. And that one time when Zayn ordered a soft serve at the diner, teasing Liam with the kitten lick and obscene slurps, that had Liam dragging him to the bathroom and pushing Zayn onto his knees.

But there was also the way, when Liam slipped his hands in between Zayn’s that Halloween night, that had Zayn holding his breath, holding on to what this was and what it could be.

“Nice ride,” Zayn chuckled at the beat up station wagon Liam made his way over to.

“Oi, it’s me uncles.” He swatted Zayn playfully with the back of his hand. “Be nice.”

Zayn slid into the passenger side with a grin.

The radio was humming some throwbacks and the soft yellow glow of street lights was the only light breaking up the inky darkness of the violet sky.

“Hey, Zayn?” Liam asked sounding shy.

“Hmm?”

Zayn turned to see Liam chewing on his bottom lip.

“I like you,” he began slowly.

“I like you,” Zayn responded, easily.

“And I want to do this right, yeah?” He slowed to a stop in front of a red light.

“Yeah?” Zayn’s heart flipped, nerve endings on edge with the way his stomach was fluttering.

Liam turned to him, illuminated by the wash of red. A slow smile spread across his face as he took Zayn in. “Would you go out with me? Like on a proper date?”

It took all of Zayn’s willpower to say--not shout or scream or, god forbid, squeal--yes.

+

Another thing Zayn notices is that he’s painting more and not just on nights he wants to get out of his skin.

It started one Saturday when Liam insisted they go into the town over to check out the street fair they were hosting.

They’re met with the sound of saxophones and drums beating in their veins when they pull into a spot in the car park.

Zayn turns Liam, eyes bright and gets out of the car, pulling Liam with him.

It’s huge.

It’s huge and it’s colorful and it’s not just full of vendors trying to push the latest brand of bottled water on you--there are booths for the local Pride center, for an animal shelter, for a film festival a couple of towns over.

But that’s not what catches Zayn’s attention at first.

It’s a small booth, covered in a paint splattered tarp that has Zayn squeezing Liam’s hand gently and pulling him gently across the maze of booths and people.

“Hi,” Zayn says stopping in front of the booth. Liam untangles their hands to snake an arm around Zayn’s waist.

“Hi!” The girl chirps back. She’s got on an over sized flannel top and her hair pulled back into a tall blonde ponytail.

Zayn’s eyes drag across the paints they have lining the counter. Acrylic, oil, watercolor in deep earthy tones, soft pastels, sharp neon oranges and greens.

On the back of the booth, they have paintings leaning against a table, that Zayn supposes are for sale.

“Do you paint?” The girl prompts, watching Zayn take in the colors.

“Yeah, I suppose. Sometimes.”

“He’s incredible,” Liam adds, running his hands down Zayn’s sides softly.

“There’s this art show--I don’t know if you guys are from around here but--the town over is having an art show and I think they’re still accepting portfolios.” She goes to dig around her bag and pulls up the same flyer Mrs. Stone had given Zayn just a month ago.

“Yep!” She says. “Two more weeks. It’s a great opportunity for aspiring artists.” She pushes the paper to Zayn and he takes it slowly.

“Okay,” is all he says, folding it carefully and sliding it into his pocket.

+

The first thing he thinks to paint is the way the golden light washed over Liam that night he found him painting on the wall.

He sketches a rough outline of Liam’s face, adding shadows and shapes so that there’s an almost geometric feel to the way the colors mix. He mixes colors experimentally with his bottom lip between his teeth and spreads the rich golden hues across the canvas until the sunrise peeks through the trees in his backyard.

He curls up on his mattress and wakes up in the afternoon, looking at his painting with fresh eyes, and he’s astonished.

Proud, he’s proud.

The dark blue swirls of the background--littered with soft fleck of white to mimic stars--contrast with the soft gold on Liam’s profile as he faces the right with a soft look of determination on his face.

Zayn reaches into his pocket and pulls out the flyer, reading it seriously for the first time.

+

He keeps painting, devotes whole days to immersing himself in the way greens swirl with light blues and the way the paint stands up when he dabs at it. He creates three more pictures that deal heavily with color contrast--all snapshots from his life.

He has the one he did of Liam but, in addition to that, he also has one of the wall with a silhouette of a boy stretching in front of it, an abstract rendering of the outside of the diner (with half the painting imitating heavy pixels), and, his favorite, one inspired by The Vortex (a grainy portrait of a too bright stage surrounded by silhouettes of bodies).

It’s on the third week of November that he gathers the courage to lay out the four canvases and photograph them but he does. He quickly uploads them to his laptop and emails them to the email printed on the flyer.

After staring at the unchanging status of his email inbox, he decides to shut off his computer and crawl into bed.

+

He doesn’t hear back for two weeks.

The first week he’s all jittery nerves and anxiety and Liam asks him more than once what’s wrong but he gives him a queasy smile and says “nothing”.

The second week he’s in a morose state, accepting solemnly the fact that he probably didn’t get in. He ignores a lot of Liam’s texts about going out, telling him that he’s not feeling well. ‘Cause Zayn’s never been heartbroken but he thinks that this is what it feels like.

So when he’s up at ten in the morning on Saturday and refreshing his email listlessly, he doesn’t expect the “Arts Council-Your Portfolio” on the subject line of any of his mail.

But that’s what he gets.

He scrambles to click on it, holding its breath as the email loads and almost breaking his face with the magnitude of the smile that spreads across it.

He’s in.

He goes to run upstairs to tell his family, but, halfway up the stairs, he remembers that they’re all visiting an aunt in London who’s just had a child.

So he does the next best thing--call Liam.

One ring, two rings, three rings and Zayn thinks Liam’s not gonna pick up but he does on the fifth.

“Whassup?” A sleepy voice calls through the end.

“Shit it’s so early, nevermind. Go back to bed.” Zayn panics.

“No, it’s fine.” Liam yawns and he hears shuffling in the background. “What’s up?”

“Um,” Zayn hesitates, unsure how to go on. “Can you come over? I’ve got something to show you.”

He hears Liam chuckle. “Sounds ominous. But yeah, alright. Be there round twelve. ‘S that okay?”

“Perfect.”

+

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is only half the fic and I'm honestly not sure if I'm going to continue it but I might. Backstory: I wrote a whole other fic for this prompt and then 5 days before I was supposed to post, I changed practically the entire thing, so, I've spent the past five days writing an entirely new fic and I'm kind of exhausted and I'd rather spend work on this when I'm not just in a rush to finish.  
> But this was for Laura who I hope doesn't totally hate me. (And I hope this was kinda what you were looking for).  
> Also super thanks to echelonkilljoyatthedisco.tumblr.com who beta'd the first half. x  
> Tell me what you guys think!  
> EDIT: okay i was so not expecting this response and, after looking over my outline/getting away from writing it a bit, i definitely want to continue.


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